


221C

by cincoflex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson finally rents the basement flat at Baker Street; John and Sherlock deal with an intriguing neighbor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

221C  
Mrs. Hudson says she’s _finally_ rented the downstairs flat. Looks like Sherlock and I will have a neighbor. Hope whoever it is doesn’t object to violin music at all hours, or the occasional gunshots/explosion/fires that happen when Sherlock’s bored. Still, might be nice to have someone other than Mrs. H to borrow the odd egg from.

\--oo00oo—

Moving day from the sounds coming through the hallway downstairs. Sherlock’s at St. Barts at the moment so he’s missing all the fun, although he’ll probably be able to tell me exactly how many men lifted what items of furniture and where our neighbor’s from just from the smell in the hall and some scratches on the wallpaper. Most of the time that ability of his is amazing, but every now and then it does get a bit annoying too. I suppose it would be the neighborly thing to pop down later and introduce myself, maybe warn the new tenant in sort of general terms about what to expect from up here—forewarned is forearmed and all that.

\--oo00oo—

The nameplate on the mailbox says Elliot Roth, so I suppose that’s our new neighbor. Haven’t seen him yet, but it’s bound to happen soon I’m sure. Sherlock’s brought home two bin liners and he looks a bit too pleased with himself so I’m going to guess that they’re from Molly, that they’re going in the fridge and that I probably _don’t_ want to look inside them. Sometimes I feel like I’m living with the modern equivalent of the Ripper, which is enough to put anybody off their tea.

\--oo00oo—

Ran into an utterly scrumptious woman standing down in the hall today when I went to collect the post. Hoped she was a client coming up to see Sherlock since it’s been a while, and she certainly wasn’t hard to look at—a little taller than myself, curvy in all the right places, masses of thick red-brown hair. All right yes, it’s been a while, but at least I’m not denying my natural instincts, unlike someone else I could name. 

I introduced myself and mentioned Sherlock, trying to be casual about it and she smiled. Lovely smile, really. Definitely.

Then she held out her hand and I noticed she was wearing gloves. Thin little cotton ones, medical quality—the sort we put on burn victims. I was so focused on them that I nearly missed her introduction, but there it was:

“I’m Elliot Roth, your downstairs neighbor. Good to meet you.”

Ah. I had no idea women could be named Elliot. Not that I mind or anything; my own sister calls herself Harry so there you have it. I just wasn’t expecting our fellow tenant to be female. Sometimes it’s good to be surprised.

“Sorry about the gloves but I have a condition that makes touching a little painful,” she continued. I let go of her hand quickly, but she just smiled. “You didn’t hurt me, it’s fine.”

“Burns?” I asked, and then had to add, “I’m a doctor,” because I didn’t want her to think I was nosy. I am of course, but when you tell people you’re medically qualified they don’t seem to mind as much. I figured that out ages ago, before meeting Sherlock even.

“Not exactly.” 

She sounded American, and I asked about it; Elliot told me she was from South Carolina and that she knew Mrs. Hudson from some time spent with relatives in Florida. The whole time she was talking I was listening and trying to figure out what sort of skin condition she might have, because the rest of her—what I could see anyway—looked fine. I’m no expert in dermatology, but Elliot didn’t look as if she had psoriasis or eczema or any of the usual afflictions.

Thinking about her skin led to a brief fantasy about seeing her nude, and I took myself off that train of thought right away because let’s face it; mentally undressing women you’ve just met is creepy. Mind you, it’s a thought I might return to later, in private, but it’s a bit not good when you’re standing in the hall together.

Anyway, Elliot added that Mrs. Hudson had already told her a great deal about us and that she was pleased to meet me and hoped to meet Sherlock at some point. I sort of nodded but didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure exactly what he’d make of her. Probably be rude as usual.

\--oo00oo—

Someone’s been leaving dead sheep all over London. I tried to get Sherlock interested in it, but he says it’s trivial and that he’s not going to follow the flock. Ha Ha. Maybe he won’t feel that way if one shows up on our doorstep.

Lestrade might give the case for us; Sherlock is twitchy but not completely manic yet, so I’m holding out hope. I’ve got a shopping list started, and I’m debating on whether or not to get a little housewarming something for Elliot. Sherlock still hasn’t met her but gave a grunt when I mentioned our meeting and added some comment about Mrs. Hudson needed more money since the telly license fee is going up again and God forbid she miss a single episode of _EastEnders._

Ah well, he’s not _quite_ as snide as he used to be.

I think maybe some Walkers for Elliot; I’ll see if she’s as partial to them as I am.

\--oo00oo—

More sheep; someone left a carcass two days ago right near the tube station near St. Barts. The animal rights people are up in arms; Sherlock remains uninterested in mutton remains. Most people seem to think it’s a prank but some of the conspiracy folk make the case for some sort of bizarre Anthrax testing on the population. There are even a few that claim it’s sheep rustling ala Wallace and Grommit. You have to love Londoners I swear.

It turns out Elliot _adores_ shortbread, which is the first bit of good news in a while. She invited me in to share a few and her place is quite nice. A bit small and damp of course, being a basement flat, but she’s got comfortable furniture for it. I took a look around and could make some obvious assumptions—she’s living alone, she’s moderately well-off and well-read if the size of the bookcase is any indication. The tea was a bit weak, but I chalk that up to her being American. She’ll probably get better at it if she stays.

Apparently Elliot works—and I kid you not—at the London Sperm Bank in Harley Street. I don’t think I stopped blushing for the first twenty minutes after she told me that. Apparently she’s part of their media support and information team, hired on from some cryogenic company back in America. I tried to put my best physician’s face on, but she just sort of rolled her eyes and smirked, and told me to go ahead and ask her all the questions now and get it over with.

The things I do to better myself. So I asked about donations and whether it was a successful field, and Elliot got out her laptop to show me the website and blog. Very professional, what with official certification from the HFEA. I did notice that she took off her gloves to type, and that I couldn’t see any scar tissue or burns anywhere on her hands. Pretty hands, graceful in fact.

Anyway, it was a lovely little visit and I offered to show her around London if she needed any help with that. Elliot told me I was very kind and told me she’d take me up on that some weekend. I went back upstairs feeling rather pleased with myself until I realized that Sherlock had apparently used the last of the milk to put out a fire on the table.

“Done flirting with the neighbor are we? Tell me John, were a few stale biscuits and hideous tea worth the chat-up?”

“Actually yes,” I told him and went to get some paper towels from the kitchen. “It was fascinating.”

“I doubt it’s your brain that’s responsible for that particular reaction,” he rumbled at me. “Given the state of your trousers and the flush to your face.”

“You never _mind_ my trousers,” I shot back. Honestly, I should be used to that withering sort of remark but I wasn’t going to let him ruin a perfectly nice visit, particularly when his insinuations might have some truth to them. A bit, anyway.  
“Did it _have_ to be the milk? We have got a fire extinguisher and water you know.”  
“It was the first thing at hand and never mind that. Tell me about her cotton gloves,” Sherlock snapped at me.

“Cotton. Standard burn gloves you can get a dozen in a pack for under three pounds. Told me she had a condition that made touching painful. Wait--I thought you hadn’t seen her—how did you know about Elliot’s gloves?”

“Well obviously from the fibres on the edge of her post box. Mrs. Hudson put the name plate in a few days ago, but there are fresh fibres on the left-hand edge of the box where Ms. Roth reached in for her mail. Most people take their gloves off once they’re inside their own foyers but she didn’t, which tells me she didn’t want to risk touching anything that’s communal. Now why is that do you think?”

“Dunno. She didn’t strike me a germaphobe or a hypochondriac,” I mused, “her hands looked perfectly normal when she took them off to type.”

“She took her gloves _off_ around you. Interesting,” Sherlock drawled out in that insinuating way that drives me up the wall sometimes. I shot him a look that he ignored as he set another slide in the microscope. “All right, what is it you’re implying?”

“Nothing. Only that she trusts you to a certain degree. Very flattering, I’d think.”

I thought that over. “Yeah, it is.”

Sherlock snorted, which could translate to pretty much anything, but I’m sure it was his shorthand for _you’re an idiot, John._

“Any more sheep?” I asked him, just to change the subject.

“What? Oh, no, not that I know of,” Sherlock muttered impatiently. “But I suppose ‘wool’ see what the morning brings.”

“Oh very droll, very droll. I’m telling you Lestrade is going to beg you for help on it sooner or later.”

“If he does I’ll tell him where he can ram it.”

“Sherlock!”

I think he’s getting spoiled; anything less than outright murder seems to be an insult to his skills.

\--oo00oo—

A long couple of days doing clinic and waiting for Lestrade to text Sherlock with something juicy. Spend some time looking at the Sperm Bank site and noted that I’m just on the end of the age range to donate. Not that I was planning to, God no.

Sherlock’s still within the range, the bastard. I’m sure there are dozens of women out there who wouldn’t mind having a shot at his particular genetics—height, cheekbones, intellect—but I just can’t picture him you know . . . just not something he’d do. Sometimes I doubt he wanks at all, although I’m sure he must. God only knows what turns Sherlock on; probably naked mensa members thinking up complex puzzles.

I need to get out more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter, but I didn't want to break the scene!

Have invited Elliot up to take-away dinner tonight, and she agreed. I’m debating on whether to have Indian or Chinese food. Leaning towards the Chinese since that’s probably what she’s used to in America. I’ve told Sherlock to mind his manners; that making friends of a neighbor could be helpful. His reply was too rude to repeat, and reminds me that I really do need to clear my browsing history before I let him use my laptop.

Anyway, I got the food along with a few bottles of wine, knocked on Elliot’s door and we walked up together carrying the bags. When we stepped in, Sherlock was being all languidly dramatic on the sofa; the usual. Elliot gave him a nod and went to put the bags on the table. I could see Sherlock eyeing her legs, not that I blame him. He got up and stalked over, giving her that once over of his that’s equivalent to being CAT scanned. To her credit, Elliot didn’t flinch, but I could see she wasn’t terribly comfortable with it either. It IS a bit like having the headlights of a huge lorry thrown on you.

“You’re a native of Charleston South Carolina, more specifically the Isle of Palms. You’re left-handed, unmarried and have a fondness for cats even though Mrs. Hudson won’t permit you to have one. You have one brother, a coffeemaker that’s not working and you came to England specifically to escape a difficult relationship,” Sherlock told her with that smug little flourish of his.

I could have killed him. Honestly, he’s like a kid insisting on doing his party trick before the guests even have their coats off sometimes. I expected Elliot to flinch or look scared, the way most people do when Sherlock figuratively strips them down like that.

What Elliot did instead was to smile and nod. “Yes.”

God, I should have had my cell phone out and taken a photo. Sherlock blinked, looking a little gobsmacked for all of three seconds, but ooh they were worth it! I had to turn away so he didn’t see me smirking too much at seeing someone actually _un_ -impressed with his ability.

“Yes. So I’m right about all of it?” Sherlock asked, as if he needed validation. He _never_ needs validation.

“Yes,” she told him again. “You are. Good job.”

Talk about the wind going out of his sails! I was grinning so hard now I was in danger of straining something, and of course that meant Sherlock was going to round on _me_ in a moment so I headed him off by shoving a bottle of wine at him. “Put this one away would you?”

I wanted him to do it and not Elliot, who certainly didn’t need to see whatever else might be in the fridge. He took it and stalked off towards the kitchen while I looked at Elliot and rolled my eyes.

She helped me lay the plates and open the cartons; Sherlock came back and stared at us without offering to help of course.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious how I _knew_ all that without meeting you prior?” he demanded as I decanted the wine and poured it.

“A little, yeah,” Elliot told him. “But I’m sure John told you a few things.”

Actually I hadn’t. Sherlock drew himself up and looked ready to shoot off his mouth once more so I cleared my throat and announced dinner was ready.

We sat down and I was perfectly aware that at any moment Sherlock would toss some sort of verbal grenade out, but I was hoping we’d at least get to the Kung Pao before it happened. 

“Actually John’s told me very little about you,” Sherlock muttered a little while after that, fishing in the carton of rice instead of offering it to our guest first. “Neither has Mrs. Hudson; aren’t you going to take your gloves off? I’d hate to see you spill on them. Hot mustard stains so easily you know.”

Elliot hesitated only a moment and peeled them off, laying them to the side. Sherlock had the audacity to look triumphant, the sod. I shot him a warning look but it was useless of course.

“No obvious trauma or apparent paresthesia,” he continued in that infernally irritating way of his.

“Sherlock, Elliot’s a _guest_ , not a case or a specimen,” I warned him. 

She sighed and looked at Sherlock. “All right fine, _tell_ me how you knew those things about me.”

It was the perfect thing to say of course; much as Sherlock denies his need for an audience he really can’t resist showing off. I set my chopsticks down and waited for the show, wishing like hell that I’d suggested dinner down in 221C instead of up here.

“The mid-Atlantic accent you have possesses unique ingliding long mid-vowels and is non-rhotic; that combined with faint traces of Gullah tell me the state, South Carolina and the region, Charleston. I note that cloth of your purse is embroidered with both pineapples and palm trees, indicating it most likely comes from one of the outermost cities nearest the ocean with Isle of Palms being the most likely. Your left-handedness is borne out by the stronger smudges and staining on that glove; the presence of cat hairs along your stockings tells me that you too have been petting the ferals that haunt the back alley behind our building, the ones that Mrs. Hudson feeds when she thinks no one is looking. I know you have a brother because inside your pocket is the bulge made by the recent gift of a can of pepper spray; a sister would have been far more likely to have given you a whistle for self-protection—brothers are more practical. There are traces of coffee grounds along the bottom of your sleeve meaning that you dragged it through a puddle on your kitchen counter—that there would be grounds mixed in with it instead of a simple spill says it’s time to get a new coffeemaker. And as for the difficult relationship, well it’s clear that someone has been screening your mail before forwarding it to you in different envelopes since what you’re currently receiving is addressed to E. Roth without any honorific to indicate gender.”

I didn’t look at Sherlock and just kept my attention on Elliot. She looked a little disconcerted, but thoughtful as she picked up her chopsticks.

“That’s definitely impressive, Mr. Holmes. You’re very . . . observant.”

Oh this wasn’t going to end well, so I jumped in. “Yes, Sherlock’s very, um, talented. That’s why the police keep coming to him for help.”

Elliot flinched a little and reached for her wine. “Do they take you seriously?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Lestrade does, the others don’t until I’ve solved their case for them.”

“Do they . . . make fun of you?” Elliot asked.

I helped myself to another glass of wine. Sherlock looked a little more intense so I spoke up to cut him off. “Yes, they do, but not so much lately, not with his track record. More Kung Pao anyone?”

“What an _interesting_ question,” Sherlock told her in that light tone I know is prelude to a kill. “You want to know if the police take me seriously, and the reason you ask is because you’ve got experience with the police not taking _you_ seriously.”

I had no idea what the hell he meant by that and shot him a dirty look. God, it’s impossible to have someone over when he’s like this. Poor Elliot was looking very uncomfortable now and even I, the one without any sort of terrific observational skills could see she was getting ready to leave.

“You’re right. Still, it’s a moot point since I don’t care what anybody thinks, least of all you,” she told Sherlock.

“You care what at least _one_ person thinks, otherwise you wouldn’t have fled to this side of the Pond and tried to lose yourself in a strange city!” Sherlock accused her, and that was the last straw. I had no idea what the hell he was on about, but I wasn’t going to let him bully Elliot a moment further.

“Sherlock shut _up,_ ” I told him firmly. “You’re being incredibly _rude!_ ”

“Not rude; direct,” he corrected me. “Ms Roth here is under the delusion that she has the ability to do what I do _without_ observation and deduction. She’s wrong of course; the pseudo-science of psychometry is a fraud perpetuated to con the gullible and desperate!”

“The what of what?” I had no idea what he’d just accused Elliot of but it didn’t sound very nice. Elliot rolled her eyes and shot me a quick smile that told me she didn’t hold _me_ responsible for Sherlock’s behavior.

God I was grateful for that.

She picked up her gloves, slipped one on and turned to Sherlock.

I remember her exact words. 

Elliot said, “Now it’s my turn,” and then she reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist with her bare hand.

I think he was too surprised to pull away, and then Elliot closed her eyes as she started talking. “You told me seven things about me, so let me return the favor. You had a stuffed blue elephant as a child and you called him EC for Elephant’s Child. You don’t like your brother much but you grudgingly admire what he does for the country. You are never going to give up smoking no matter how often you claim you will, and in fact the last cigarette you had was early this morning in the bathroom. You put a decaying hamster on the third shelf of your refrigerator yesterday, your first blowjob was from a girl named Janet Morgan in exchange for tutoring in chemistry twenty years ago and thank you yes, I _do_ have a fantastic ass.”

God, a _second_ time I should have taken photos! Actually, I was too stunned by what she’d said, and if _I_ was stunned it was nothing compared to Sherlock’s face. He was about two shades paler than usual and although he wasn’t gaping, it was pretty clear that he didn’t have a single comeback for her.

I wanted to applaud. Really.

Elliot let go of him, stood up and pulled on her other glove. She came over to me and gave me a quick hug—something I very much enjoyed by the way—and told me she thought it would be best to call it a night. 

I scooted away from the table and walked her to the door and then turned back to Sherlock once she’d gone down the stairs. “All right, what the _hell_ was that all about? Stuffed animals? Blowjobs? Elliot’s ASS?”

He hadn’t moved, but even from this distance I could practically _hear_ his synapses snapping and crackling. It was almost frightening to see Sherlock so utterly off the grid, and I was tempted to check his pupils just to make sure he hadn’t gone into shock, not that it was bloody likely.

I stalked over and stared at him, hoping for some sort of explanation, trying to sort out what Elliot had said and wondering if any of it was true. Mind you the blow job comment was interesting, and I couldn’t fault Sherlock for admiring our neighbor’s bum, because yeah, it’s pretty fantastic, but a stuffed animal when he was a kid?

Not Sherlock. He’d have had a skeleton or something.

So I stared at him, waiting for his mental computer to boot up. A few seconds later he gave a snort and started blinking, eyes darting everywhere but not meeting mine. “Now _that_ was fascinating!”

“What, that she told you off, or that she did so in a way that you don’t have an explanation for?”

“Both,” Sherlock announced, and held out his hand, snapping his fingers. “Laptop.”

“Wait, before I do anything I want to know—was she right?”

Sherlock still hadn’t met my eye and I’ve been around him long enough to catch when he’s being evasive. I picked up the laptop from the kitchen counter and held it out of reach; when he noticed I shook my head. “Ah-ah. Was. She. Right?”

“I don’t have _time_ for this, John!” he told me, and I had to do some pretty fancy twisting to keep out of his reach; the man’s got the arm length of a bloody orangutan when he wants. “It’s essential that I find out more about—”

“Yes, yes, but I need to know; the elephant? The, ah, sex?”

He hesitated. Maybe I need to repeat that since it’s not something that happens with Sherlock, but I saw it clear as day, and that pretty much gave me my answer before he spoke.

“She seems to have obtained certain information,” he reluctantly admitted. “Information about me that I was unaware was accessible at this point in time and it’s critical that I figure out how and when she obtained it so are you going to give me that laptop or not?”

“Janet Morgan?”

“Year eleven; it was a fair exchange over Easter holidays and her suggestion I might add. Now if you’re done dwelling over one of my adolescent peccadilloes _give me the laptop!”_

I did of course, and tidied up what was left of dinner. I was in such a good mood by then that I even emptied the dust bin and whistled when I took it down, feeling that life was about to get very interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock has been in a spectacularly uncommunicative mood the last three days. Luckily I’ve dealt with that before, and it’s been rather peaceful in fact. Managed to get some tidying done along with the shopping, and even got the chance to pop round to Elliot’s and apologize for the evening.

She was down in the room opposite, where the washer and dryer are, and I found her with her back to me dancing away, which is a pretty magnificent sight, all things told. Apparently Elliot was plugged into an MP3 player and when she sensed me she spun around and pulled them out. _Jumping Jack Flash_ from what little tinny bits I could hear.

“Sorry, just wanted to apologize for the other night with Sherlock. He’s well, not socially adept, and by that I mean not at all.”

“Yeah, I got that,” she told me, and there was a little awkwardness there between for a moment while I tried to think of what else to say. Certainly I was intrigued by her . . . ability, but I wasn’t going to bring it up.

“Listen,” I said, just as she said, “Hey,” at the same time and we both sort of laughed.

“It’s okay,” Elliot told me. “I talked with Mrs. Hudson before I moved in and she gave me the low-down on your roommate—about how he’s a good guy but not exactly the life of the party.”

“Sherlock’s not exactly the life of _humanity,_ ” I told her, and then felt bad enough to add, “but he’s brilliant, and does a lot of good.”

Elliot gave a half-shrug so I dropped the subject and cleared my throat. “So, still interested in a walk-around of the city?”

And that’s how we ended up taking in roughly three miles of London in one incredibly wet afternoon. I kept offering to call it off and Elliot persisted so we shared an umbrella as I tried to show her the more interesting bits of history I could remember. Everything was going well and I was considering taking her along to a pub I knew when I got a text from Sherlock-- _Come at once_ —Along with an address only a mile or two away.

Well there was the dilemma, wasn’t it? I could try ignoring him, which would mean more irritating texts for the next hour, or I could turn off my phone, which would mean Sherlock in high dudgeon for the next three days, or I could send Elliot home and trudge off to see what the hell was so important.

None of them were very appealing choices. When I told Elliot who the text was from, she volunteered to come along. I warned her it might be anything from supremely boring to incredibly gory, but she nodded and flagged a cab while I started to text Sherlock back. Before I could, another message popped up from him. 

_Bring Ms Roth._

Oh not good. I didn’t mind Elliot volunteering, but this was out and out manipulation since Sherlock knew she was with me. I told her as much and she made a face as we climbed into the cab. “It figures. He’s still skeptical.”

“Yeah well, he’s . . .” I trailed off and gave a shrug. I wasn’t exactly sure where I stood on the matter. I mean, I’d seen her reel off a list of intimate information about Sherlock, stuff I was pretty sure he hadn’t shared with anyone at all, but given that Sherlock did that to other people all the time, it was hard to know what to think.

“He’s just like everyone else,” Elliot muttered and looked away. I felt bad for her, but before I could say anything, the cab pulled up and we climbed out at a little roundabout. Lestrade was there, and Sherlock and right at the edge of the green kerbside was . . . a dead sheep.

I had to stop smirking as I walked over. Lestrade gave me a nod and looked at Elliot, so I made the introductions. “This is Ms. Roth, our, ah, neighbor in Baker Street. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

I caught him giving her the once-over in that discreet way the police do, which irritated me. I mean come on; he’s married, and although it wasn’t anything terribly obvious I didn’t appreciate it. 

Yes, I can be chivalrous at times. Also, competitive.

“Ms Roth,” Sherlock called to her, and Elliot spun, looking over at him. He motioned in that imperious way he has, and dropped to a squat next to the sheep. Elliot stepped through the wet grass and reluctantly copied him. I wandered over while Lestrade gave someone orders behind me, and I heard Sherlock talking in a low voice.

“Now’s your opportunity to truly impress me.”

“Why?” Elliot asked and I could have cheered. Sherlock definitely needs more people with spine to stand up to him; I can’t do it all myself.

“Because if not _this_ time, then another that might not be quite as mild or sparsely attended,” Sherlock told her in that sharp way of his. 

Elliot hesitated, and then I saw her peel off a glove and point a finger at him. “Fine, but I’m only telling you, not the cops. Got it?”

“Acceptable,” Sherlock replied. I moved closer and bit my lip as Elliot laid her bare hand on the bloody fleece of the sheep.

“Feud,” she murmured quietly. “Jeremy’s wife Anne is sleeping with Marcus who won’t give her up. Two farms, twenty-three miles north of Haverling. Anne and Marcus meet in London; she takes the subway to the hotel. They’re her sheep. Jeremy isn’t brave enough to kill her or Marcus, but the sheep, she knows. He’s warning them. Killing the sheep in a green van and dumping them before driving off.”

Sounded like a melodramatic soap to me, but I didn’t say anything since neither of them asked.

Sherlock gave a nod. “And does this . . . talent of yours extend to _last_ names?”

Elliot stayed low and I watched her wrap a curl of wool around her index finger. “This was Snowcloud,” she murmured. “One of twin lambs. Anne helped bottle-feed this one. And the only last name I sensed with Lester; I don’t know if that’s Anne and Jeremy’s name or Marcus’s. Now if you don’t mind, John and I are out of here.”

She came over to me, pulling on her glove and slipped her arm through mine; a move I appreciated in more ways than one since the wind had picked up. I saw Donovan giving us an interested gaze and I shot her my best bland face. 

Lestrade didn’t look too happy, but that didn’t bother me either. Elliot and I made our way out of the roundabout and she deliberately stood on the far side, keeping me between her and everyone else.

“You really don’t like the police, do you?” I murmured. I’m no Sherlock, but I did want to be comforting.

“Nope,” she muttered in that odd American way of hers. “Your roommate can explain what he does. He’s got ways of justifying his conclusions and making people follow his line of reasoning once he explains it. Me, I can’t do that. I touch someone and it’s like watching quick thirty second commercials into people’s lives, charged up with emotions. Makes me feel like a peeping Tom or a pervert.”

“How . . .” I began, and she rolled her eyes even though she was smiling.

“I need a drink for that story,” Elliot told me. “Maybe even two. Can we get out of here?”

I nodded; Sherlock could get his own ride home.


	4. Chapter 4

Elliot and I went back to Baker Street, figuring she would want some privacy and since we still had one bottle of wine left, I opened it while she turned on the gas in the fireplace. It took some doing to find two clean glasses but when I brought her one she took it gratefully, warming her feet by the fire.

I mentioned she was pretty, didn’t I? Anyway we ended up sitting on the carpet, both of us drying our socks as she started to speak.

“I’m nobody special,” Elliot began, and when I tried to object she just shook her head. “No, seriously. My brother was the smart one; he’s head of a bank back in the States. He got the brains, and I was the jock. Did track and field, some soccer, some martial arts, that sort of stuff through school. I scraped up a degree in computers somehow and got a job with a cryogenics lab branch office and life was, you know, normal.”

I could picture that, actually. Elliot had that look to her; healthy and out-of-doors. Made me feel bad about what a London winter was going to do to her complexion.

“Normal,” I prompted, taking another sip of wine.

“Normal,” she sighed. “I dated, I partied, I joined a tennis league. Even had a cat. Completely, boringly normal. God I _miss_ it.”

We didn’t say anything, either of us for a while. Then she sighed again.

“About four years ago I went to an office party around Christmastime and had a little too much to drink. One of the techs, Jeff, started coming on to me and because I wasn’t exactly sober, we ended up out on top of the three story parking structure, making out. When I didn’t want to go back to his place, he tried to drag me to his car. I struggled. We were too close to the edge, and I . . . fell.”

“Jesus!” Now both my personal and professional concerns kicked in and I eyed her carefully. She caught my look and gave one of those wry grins.

“Landed in the dumpster full of trash bags, but cracked my skull on the corner going in. Had surgery and the doctors told my family that I had damage to the frontal lobe here on my left side,” she tapped her forehead up near her hairline. “Here. The broken ribs and leg they knew would heal, but they didn’t know how my mental functions were going to be affected. I was in a coma for a couple of weeks. While I was out I kept having weird dreams about people I’d never met.”

I knew from the way she said it that it was important, so I thought about it a moment and looked at her. “The hospital staff?”

“Yep,” Elliot nodded. “Anyone who touched my hands. The doctors and the orderlies mostly. When I woke up it was extremely freaky to look at them and _know_ details of their personal lives. I had trouble trying to figure out what the hell was going on with me, but I was lucky enough to have Doctor Raleigh take me aside a few days after I was conscious again. She listened to me, and reassured me that I wasn’t crazy although she couldn’t explain what was going on. I coped,” Elliot shrugged. “Passed it off as a party trick but people got really uncomfortable around me so I lied and ignored it. Told anyone who knew me that it had stopped. Didn’t tell new people about it at all, but I also started protecting myself because at any sudden moment I could touch someone, and . . .” she shuddered.

I thought about some of the people and things Sherlock and I had encountered and took a gulp of wine at that before speaking up. “God, that’s horrible. So you can’t just . . . _not_ do it?”

Elliot leaned forward towards the fire and stretched her hands towards the flames, the cotton gloves so close I worried about a stray spark catching on them. “It’s just my hands, John. If I rubbed shoulders with you, or brushed my foot on yours or kissed you it would be fine—no insights, no flashes into your life. All that would be the way it is with everyone else on the planet. But for some reason my _hands_ have become hot-wired into my brain some weird way that picks up . . . whatever from other people. And no, I can’t turn it off. Best I can do is to distract myself.”

I considered Sherlock and his hypersensitivity to stimulus. The thought of having two people with similar issues was enough to make me finish my glass and pour another. Then I thought about kissing Elliot, which was a much better thought. A tempting one in fact.

“That sort of situation would drive me insane,” I announced. “Considering how often I touch patients on a daily basis, and they’re people who already have some sort of hidden pain or problem.”

“Bingo,” Elliot nodded. “I started wearing the gloves pretty early on just for my sanity.”

It all sounded amazing and horrible and I wanted to offer some sort of comfort but wasn’t sure exactly what to do. She must have sensed it though, and bumped her shoulder against mine. “Hey, I haven’t even gotten to the scary part yet.”

“There’s more?”

She nodded and looked over her shoulder before speaking again. “Yeah. Before I wised up, I had . . . a boyfriend.”

That’s when I first heard about Joe Albatti. In retrospect I probably should have asked more about him but at the time the wine was going down well and I’m not Sherlock. Elliot told me that he knew about her gift and had bullied her into using it for his gain, threatening her family when she tried to end it. Apparently all of them worked together to help Elliot get away, and Mrs. Hudson offered to take Elliot in here in London while her family laid out a false trail that led to California.

“So you’re a fugitive.”

“Sort of,” she agreed. “It sucks. Mrs. Hudson is my go-between in getting messages home, and I have no idea how long I’ll be here, but I’m guessing at least two years, maybe longer. Joe’s made a lot of money off of my information and,” she sighed, “I’ve probably told you too much. _Damn_ this wine. You’re a dangerous man, John Watson.”

“Not me,” I protested, but I know I was grinning as I said it. “I’m nothing of the sort!”

It would have been the perfect moment to lean in and snog if there hadn’t been a commotion down in the foyer. We could hear Sherlock bounding up the stairs, his approach destroying the cozy mood with every sodding step. There _are_ times when I would cheerfully wring his neck.

He sailed into the room as Elliot and I got up off the floor. Before I could say anything Sherlock rubbed his hands together and stared at us both.

“Good, you’re here. In three hours Lestrade will be giving a thoughtful press conference closing up the Slicing of the Lambs so while that’s going on I want the pair of you to come with me to St. Bart’s.”

“Why?” I asked, trying to put every bit of annoyance into the word that I could.

“Because _after_ that Lestrade will try to find out who Ms. Elliot is by stopping by on some pretense and it would be better for all concerned not to be here,” Sherlock told us. “Therefore an hour or two at the morgue will give us an ample opportunity to put Ms. Elliot through her paces.”

“Call me Elliot,” she muttered and then looked at me. “He’s always like this, isn’t he?”

“Unfortunately yes,” I told her.

So much for a little snog.


	5. Chapter 5

There are millions of places in London to take someone for a jolly time. The Eye. Maybe a nice walk along the West End. Museums and shopping districts. Dozens and dozens of normal and amazing places.

Did we go to any of them? No. No, _we_ went to the morgue. A couple of glasses of wine do _not_ make the experience any better, either. It was getting on to late afternoon and the rain had started again, which gave the whole trip that eerie ‘we’re off fetching brains for Doctor Frankenstein, thank you’ feel to it. 

None of that affected Sherlock, who always strides in as if he owns the place. It’s painful to admit I think he does. He has Molly so cowed that she pretty much lets him do whatever he wants . . . all right maybe ‘cowed’ isn’t the right word. Molly’s got this massive crush on him, and Sherlock uses that a bit ruthlessly at times. Lestrade and I have tried offering her some advice, and lately she seems to have re-gained some spine around Sherlock. She’s a nice girl, really, and yet Sherlock has a rather callous blind spot regarding her.

Anyway, I did the introductions while Sherlock circled the gurneys, looking like a food critic trying to find the right appetizer. Molly and Elliot seemed to hit it off all right. I wasn’t sure what to say about Elliot’s gloves, but before anyone could say anything about it Sherlock took Molly by the shoulders and steered her out, telling her that the receptionist’s cat had kittens and there were photos to see. She slipped out, leaving the three of us with three full tables, and if I thought I wasn’t feeling my best I can only _imagine_ how Elliot felt.

Honestly—alone in a morgue with two neighbors, one of whom has already proven himself to be a bit of an ass—if that wasn’t enough to send her backing out of the room I don’t know what would be.

Still she had spine, I’ll give her that. When Sherlock undid the first body bag and opened it up Elliot didn’t flinch too much.

“Hmmm, late fifties, heart attack brought on by obesity and genetic propensity, worked for the City most likely somewhere within the Tube system, a wife and two children, grown, and a porn habit,” Sherlock rattled off in that magician’s way of his. I peeked into the bag and tried to piece together the clues but only the groove where the wedding ring had been stood out for me. I glanced up at him and noted he was waiting for Elliot to do the same before speaking.

Prat.

“Yes?” she sighed.

“Heart attack listed on the toe tag although the residual scorch of defibrillator paddles along the chest are still faintly evident. The lack of tan differentiation at either the neck or cuffs indicate an occupation predominantly indoors, but this man’s age and social status precludes an office job. The bunions on his feet tell me he stands for the better part of his day and there’s a hairless band where his watch was worn day and night. Who continually stands and needs to know the precise time in the course of their job? Underground workers of course. The groove on his left ring finger says he’s been married for at least twenty years if not more, and the small tattoo on his forearm with ‘Cora, Bill and Beth’ in a poorly executed heart is a fair bet as to who his family are.”

I couldn’t help piping up. “And the, uh, porn?”

“Callous inside his right wrist from resting on the edge of a desk,” Sherlock shot back. “But no typing curvature to the fingers.”

“Charming,” I muttered, feeling a bit pink in the face. “So glad you noted that.”

“Everything is evident, anything might be relevant,” came his reply. He looked over at Elliot and cocked his head. “Have you ever touched the dead?”

“No . . .” she shrugged. “Can you, uh, zip the bag up a little first? I really don’t need to see so much of him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did as she asked. Elliot turned to me and said something I didn’t expect. “Okay, I need you to hang onto me, John.”

“Excuse me? Yes?” I wasn’t objecting, I just wanted to know why.

“Well, if it gets to be too much, you might have to uh, tug. Help me break the contact,” Elliot sighed. “Sometimes there’s so much rushing in that it’s a real overload and I might need some help. Do you mind?”

I didn’t, not at all. Any chance to slip an arm around Elliot’s waist was a godsend, and I moved closer, feeling Sherlock giving me a dry stare as I did so.

“All right,” I reassured her. “You can count on me.”

She smelled wonderful by the way. It’s been a while since I’ve been close enough to pick up on perfume. Anyway, we shuffled closer to the table and Elliot pulled off her left glove. She reached over beyond the heavy black plastic and dropped her palm against the corpse’s shoulder while I tightened the arm around her waist.

I felt her tense; on the other side of the table Sherlock was watching in that hawk-like way and for a long and terrible couple of seconds I had to fight the urge to laugh. If anyone had come into the morgue right then God only knows what they would have _thought_ we were doing.

Elliot shivered and I tightened my hold around her waist, bracing myself to pull her to me if necessary and feeling quite the hero. After about ten seconds she gave a little shudder and stepped back, turning and pressing herself into my shoulder. Well of course that meant I could give her a quick comforting cuddle even as Sherlock gave us that cool glare of his. He could sod off as far as I was concerned—not _everyone_ is as blasé about dead bodies as he is.

“Clearly you’ve gained a few insights,” he observed. “Anything you’d care to share?”

Elliot turned to face him and I felt her squeeze my arm as she did so. “Before I say _anything_ about the man on the table, we’re going to negotiate, Mr. Holmes. You want to study this stupid talent I’ve got, it’s going to cost you.”

“Yes I was expecting that,” Sherlock murmured dryly. “Your terms?”

“Quality time with your roommate.”

All right, _I_ wasn’t expecting that, but I _definitely_ appreciated hearing that Elliot was interested in getting to know me better. It was difficult to keep a straight face at that point.

“Oh _do_ stop smirking John; it’s been clear from the start that the pair of you have a mutual if slightly peculiar attraction to each other and if it must play out, better that something productive comes of it so from this point on it’s merely a matter negotiating conditions. One evening a week for two hours of testing.”

“ _Two_ evenings a week if John’s interested and I’ll give you copies of my medical records as well. I’m sure you’re just anal-retentive enough to want a look at those,” Elliot replied with enough spirit to do me proud.

I could get used to being fought over, really. It’s wonderful for the ego.

“ _Two_ evenings? You live less than thirty-six steps away and it will be difficult enough for Mrs. Hudson and myself to block out whatever noise your inevitably physical activities will generate.”

“Now wait a minute!” I called out, feeling myself blush. It’s one thing to be fought over and another to have your social life predicted. “Don’t _I_ get a say in this?”

“Certainly not; you’re our currency,” Sherlock informed me.

“Of _course_ you do. Two evenings too much?” Elliot murmured and I melted. I mean, when you’ve got your arm around a beautiful woman and she’s trying to be considerate of your feelings . . .

“Two evenings would be lovely,” I confessed. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If we could get back to the issue at hand? Two nights are steep but acceptable for the time being. Any amendments or shifts can be adjusted at a later time, so _do_ we have an agreement or not?”

“Deal. Forgive me if I don’t shake hands,” Elliot told him. She straightened up and looked down at the body bag. “Robert Hendrys known as Bob. Bob worked for the subway system since nineteen seventy-three and liked it most of the time. He once helped deliver a baby—a girl-- at the Kilburn station. He knew he was having a heart attack; he’d been hiding his condition from Cora for the last three years so he wouldn’t be forced to retire. He regretted not being able to tell his little Fairy Cake he loved her.”

“Fascinating in a nauseating way,” Sherlock murmured. “Anything else? Anything _not_ conjecture?”

“He was addicted to something called York Fruits and didn’t want people to know about the tattoo of a fish on his ass.”

Sherlock shot the body a speculative glance but I shook my head. “Sorry, not helping you roll him over. Molly will have it noted on her report.”


	6. Chapter 6

We made the rounds of the other two tables, one of which had a former nursing home veteran and the other had a housewife who’d accidently mixed bleach and ammonia in a locked bathroom and had drowned in the loo after passing out. Elliot pulled up all sorts of personal information about them, details that I knew Sherlock would follow up on later. I could tell too, that it was taking a toll on Elliot so by the time we’d finished with the last table I put my foot down. 

“That’s enough for now. I think we ought to call it a night and have some nosh.”

Sherlock snorted at this and announced he was going to finish up a few matters unrelated to us. Before he left he and Elliot agree that this particular evening was off the agreement, and that the deal would begin next week. I didn’t feel a need to protest this and waited until he’d gone and we were in a taxi headed for a nice little Indian place around the corner before giving Elliot a look.

I’m a patient man sometimes. Being a Doctor helps. I _can_ get people to open up when I’m quiet but alert. Elliot shot me a look of her own and somehow that got us both smirking and eventually giggling.

“Okay, I have to say this John, but Sherlock is very . . . . possessive. It’s not going to be easy you know.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I know, I know. You’re not the first person he’s um, tried to warn off. He’s a sociopath and a nicotine addict and not the most charming person in the world but for all that he’s still a brilliant detective. Bit of a wanker, but brilliant.”

“He’s lonely,” Elliot told me softly. “That night I touched him, there were a few things I didn’t share that came through. Sherlock puts up a hard front because he knows he’s not like the rest of us, and before he learned to cope years ago he got hurt deeply by a few people he thought he could trust.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” I admitted. “Sherlock doesn’t talk a lot about his earlier life, and I’ve seen . . . well, let’s just say he’s switched chemical dependencies and leave it at that.”

Elliot nodded. “Yeah. Anyway, I think before we need to accept that he’s um, probably going to have to be considered in _any_ equation that combines us.”

I didn’t like the sound of that and shot her a worried look. “Oh God no. I’m not . . . I’m _not_ that sort of person Elliot! I mean I know there are relationships like that out there--” I didn’t get to finish because she put one gloved hand over my mouth and leaned close. I caught her eyes and realized that she wanted me to keep my voice down; the cabbie was starting to look at us in the rear view mirror.

After a few seconds he went back to watching the road and Elliot leaned in to whisper in my ear. God . . . have you ever had someone so close that you get those terrible tickles up along your ribs? I mean I know it’s not an uncommon phenomenon, but given that it was Elliot and I was already a bit worked up about being next to her, so I had to grit my teeth not to squirm.

“Not like that,” she murmured. “Sherlock can’t understand the physical attractions between people. He’s trained himself to keep his senses focused instead of just experiencing things for the sake of enjoying them, so the concept of sex is kind of mysterious and scary to him. He’s worried that that he’ll lose you to someone because of your normal drive.”

I thought about that and gave a sigh. “So what you’re saying is that he doesn’t like me to date because A, I remind him _he’s_ not normal, and B he’s afraid I’ll leave.”

“Yeah,” Elliot sighed back. The cab slowed to the kerb and I paid the fare. We climbed out in front of Chakra’s where the scent of butter chicken and rice drifted out towards us.

“We’ll talk about it later. For now, let’s eat,” Elliot giggled, and slipped her arm through mine.

“Let’s,” I agreed.

\--oo00oo-- 

Because I’m a gentleman I’m not about to kiss and tell, but it’s all right to admit the dinner went exceedingly well. Elliot is a lot of fun. She’s smart and pretty and very, very, American, which is sort of exotic. We have the same taste in movies and desserts. I like the way she laughs, and it was nice to simply relax for the evening. 

I brought her home and before we even made it through the foyer I received a text. Elliot laughed as I fished out my phone. “Sherlock interruptus?”

“Apparently,” I sighed. “He’s requesting assistance in the form of tea.”

“He’s checking to make sure you don’t linger,” Elliot told me, and grinned. “Hey . . .”

So naturally the minute I came through the door Sherlock started up. “The pair of you had chicken curry, naan and paneer, with malpoa for afters,” he mumbled, not looking up from the laptop. “And you kissed for approximately seventeen seconds.”

“Whereas _you’ve_ been a prat since the day I met you,” I retorted. “I don’t suppose you’ve eaten.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Here—the leftover paneer and some naan, from Elliot,” I told him, setting the bag near him and heading into the kitchen to start the tea.

I could see Sherlock was a little taken aback by the offering, but I got on with the business of tea and after a while I heard the bag rustle a bit and grinned to myself.

When I brought him his cuppa he was finishing one half of a naan and pretending it didn’t matter. “She does know that getting involved with you is risky to both of you, doesn’t she? Aside from the tedious emotional ties that constrict and complicate matters, a social life will make it harder for her to stay in hiding, and may well bring her ex-boyfriend to London much sooner than she anticipated.”

“She probably does at that,” I conceded. “I’m not going to ask how you know about the ex-boyfriend, but I’m rather interested in your thoughts about her, ah, talent.”

“A neurological re-wiring of her somatosensory system via trauma,” Sherlock airily informed me. “It has some interesting aspects of course and I believe I’ll be able to explain it all shortly. I’ve set up a few spreadsheets to keep track of the incidents and variables that may come into play. Did she give you her medical records yet?”

I shot him a look but it was hopeless; Sherlock has no time or patience for social niceties. “Afraid not; dinner out isn’t usually the time for transactions of that sort.”

“Pity, it would have saved me the tedium of requesting you pick them up tomorrow.”

“Right,” I snorted, and took a sip as I looked him over. Sherlock was focused on the laptop, but I knew he was also aware that I was watching him.

“I’m particularly busy John. Is there something fascinating about my left ear or do you have something more to say?”

“No,” I stood up, turned with my cup and headed for the stairs, timing my pause just right. When I got to the second one I stopped and added, “It’s just that Elliot thinks we’re going to end up in a ménage a trois. Night.”

I know I heard the laptop wobble on the sofa, but I didn’t bother looking back.

\--oo00oo—

It’s been a lovely few weeks up until today. Sherlock’s kept busy with the end results of about sixteen different experiments and I no longer have to fear opening plastic bins in the fridge. Honestly, it’s been a nasty shock to go looking for leftover shepherd’s pie and find a collection of gall bladders instead.

I’ve been able to put in a few extra hours at the clinic, which means my Christmas fund is building up nicely, and on top of all that Elliot and I have enjoyed our evenings out. We took in a few films, and gone to a few of the touristy places she’s wanted to see. Sometimes I forget how someone who’s not from round here gets worked up about things like that. Elliot particularly liked the changing of the guard and visiting the Tower. She wore sunglasses the whole time and wouldn’t take any snaps, even though she mentioned how much her mother would have enjoyed seeing them.

I heard a lot about how much she missed home. Heard more about Albatti, and made a note to see if Sherlock knew anything about him even as I made another one to lay the bastard out myself if I ever ran into him. Elliot tried to talk about him in a rational way, but I’m a doctor. I know body language and her shoulders and arms said a lot more about the way he treated her than her lips ever did.

And they’re very nice lips. Not that I need to go into detail, but we have gone from seventeen seconds into much longer kisses, and although we’re not rushing, I’m thoroughly enjoying the anticipation each agreed-upon evening brings. I think we’re both holding off on going further partially because we both know Sherlock is going to be a bit insufferable when it finally _does_ happen.


	7. Chapter 7

As I said, all going well until today, when the scent of turkey came drifting around. Since we were still a month away from Christmas it had me confused, but Mrs. Hudson popped up to invite us to dinner, and mentioned it was to ‘cheer Elliot up since she’s missing out on holiday dinner with her family, poor lamb.’ 

The thought of a free dinner and Elliot was enough to make me nod, but Sherlock merely sniffed. “I’m busy.”

“Busy not eating,” Mrs. Hudson chided him. “Busy waiting until we’ve left so you can hunt for your cigarettes, Sherlock. I know you don’t like to be sociable, but I’ve made more than enough _and_ I’ve done your favorite pudding.”

It was funny to see Sherlock blink; he’s usually so much better at hiding his reactions. “I know; regrettably I shall pass.”

“Pi-ty,” Mrs. Hudson murmured, and I watched her work her magic. “Fresh cream, organic strawberries, peaches and pineapple, and sponge cake completely from scratch. And it _will_ be the only one I make this year.”

“The only one?” I murmured a bit wistfully; Mrs. H’s trifles are the stuff of legend and I can vouch that Sherlock had at least half of the one she made last Christmas.

“Yes, I’m spending the holidays in Florida, so I won’t be here at Christmas,” she informed us. “One of the reasons I wanted to do this dinner for Elliot, poor thing.”

“Well count me in,” I assured her. “Sounds lovely.”

“Should be; she’s doing a few of the courses. It’s that American holiday where they all overeat to show how grateful they are for religious freedom.”

“Thanksgiving you mean?” I’d heard of it, although it simply sounded like a feast day to me.

“That’s the one. We’ll expect you around six then. Ta!”

After she’d left I looked at Sherlock, who was busy lying on the couch looking like a body during visiting hours at the undertakers. “It’s bound to be a good nosh-up from what I can smell, and let’s face it, the price is right.”

“Yes I’m sure it will be,” he replied absently.

“And it will be the last chance to have some decent home cooking,” I offered. “At least better than mine.”

“Another selling point,” Sherlock murmured, and I made a face because I’m not _that_ bad a cook. He was nice enough to give me a quick grin to show he didn’t mean it though, and added, “It will give me a chance to study Elliot in a social setting as well, and as you say, Mrs. Hudson’s puddings are worth an evening’s irritation.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so tetchy about Elliot,” I muttered, moving to pick up some of the empty mugs. Sherlock leaves them everywhere. I once found one behind the couch, and another inside the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and no, they weren’t experiments. 

At least, not intentional ones.

“I am not as you put it, _tetchy,_ John. I am interested in her yet as unexplained talent, but beyond that she’s nothing to me but another female occupying space and making demands on your time.”

“She’s a _person,_ Sherlock, and one I’m getting fond of,” I shot back.

“Your sleeve has seen its share of hearts, John, and Elliot is just one more.”

“Mmm, well better a lover than a cynic; we get shagged a bit more often,” I told him.

“Not yet you haven’t,” Sherlock smarted off, and I didn’t dignify that with a reply, just marched back to the kitchen and emptied the floating mold collections down the drain. After a moment I looked over my shoulder at him and sighed.

“You really don’t have time for women, do you? I mean, outside of their position in various cases or in the general scheme of life.”

“I don’t have time for _anybody_ outside of those circumstances,” Sherlock huffed. “It’s all pointless and repetitive and dull, John. How do people go around having the same conversations and interactions day after day with only minute variations to make the differences? How do you tolerate that with the uncertain and unrewarding goal of sexual congress in mind?”

“Because sexual congress is pretty terrific in and of itself when done right, and the conversations and interactions leading up to them aren’t repetitive or dull, at least to me.”

“When done right,” Sherlock practically sneered. “I suppose that’s the reason for all the practice.”

“Right, whatever. I’m going to go see if there’s anything I can bring,” I told him and headed down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

Even after all this time it still brings me up short when Sherlock gets shirty about certain issues, and while I can generally let them go there are times when they do get under my skin. It was clear to me that his own experiences with intimacy were either non-existent or had been pretty bad; either way it was best not to pry.

I knocked and Elliot answered, looking flushed. “Hey John!”

“Hey,” I smiled at her. “Just thought I’d pop round and see if there was anything I could do or bring for this evening.”

It was easy to see her eyes were a bit red, and without even thinking about it I put my arms around her. This meant I got flour on me, but Elliot hugged back, which felt very nice.

“Hey. Sorry about that. I was just thinking about what everyone at home would be doing about now, and it depressed me a little. I’m really glad you’re coming to Thanksgiving tonight,” she whispered.

I squeezed her tight until I felt the tension lessen, and managed to get a kiss to her temple when we pulled apart. “Holidays can be hard when you’re away from home,” I assured her. I’d spent the last three Christmases out of the country myself, but I didn’t add that. Elliot tried to brush the flour off of me and we ended up giggling a little. I noticed she wasn’t wearing gloves, either.

“Ell,” I murmured, and looked at her fingers. “Just wondering. Why haven’t you . . . touched _me?_ ”

She looked at me and pursed her mouth. “I’m scared. Scared of what I’ll see,” she admitted. “I mean you’ve _told_ me about Afghanistan, but if I touch you, I’ll probably see it. That, and other things you may not _want_ to share, John.”

“Oh,” I replied, not very brightly. There are times I completely forget about her ability sometimes. “Right.”

“That doesn’t mean I _won’t_ touch you, eventually,” Elliot was quick to follow up. “But it would probably be better if it was just you and me alone.”

“Yes, probably,” I murmured. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s okay,” she sighed. “I’m just finishing up the biscuits and going to start on the Hoppin’ John. If you want to bring a bottle of wine that would be great.”

“Hopping what?”

“Lowcountry rice dish,” she giggled. “You don’t need to hop anywhere. It’s sort of traditional in my family. Can you help me put one extra leaf in the table?”

We set up Mrs. Hudson’s dining room, laying on the tablecloth and doing the napkins up, making places for the four of us. I hadn’t done something that domestic in ages and it felt nice.

“So Sherlock’s coming?” Elliot asked.

“Yes. Among his secret addictions you can put Mrs. H’s trifle.”

“It’s pretty good, yeah. She used to make them for us at Christmas when we were in Florida. Mom would do key lime pies, and Mrs. H would do trifle, and Dan and Dad w-would sit around the living room and watch the college bowl games . . .”

I caught the wobble in her voice and got my arms around her as quickly as I could letting her cry against my shoulder while I soothed her.

I won’t lie; it felt amazing, and that was when I started to realize that Elliot was rapidly becoming someone . . . special. To me. There were all the lovely physical things about her that appealed, sure, but the very fact that she let me comfort her like this did a lot for me too. That I could offer her something she needed and that she trusted me to help . . . well, that’s the best sort of aphrodisiac there is, isn’t it?

After a little while she pulled away from my shoulder and snuffled a bit; I used my thumb to wipe away the tracks of her tears and managed a loppy grin at her. “Better now?”

“A little, yeah. Thank you,” Elliot murmured. She leaned into me as I leaned into her and we kissed. Very sweet, that one. It led to another one just as lovely and after a while we heard Mrs. H calling ‘you-hoo?’ in the kitchen so we had to stop. I slipped out to get wine, grinning like a loon.

A few minutes past six I managed to herd Sherlock down after making sure his shirt didn’t have any chemical stains or holes in it. He wasn’t actually as reluctant as he made out; I’d heard his stomach rumble a few times earlier in the day, and the turkey smelled a treat. Mrs. H welcomed us in and fluttered around a moment, looking pleased we’d shown up on time. She complimented my jumper and tutted about Sherlock needing a haircut as she took the wine.

Elliot came out of the kitchen looking nice and smelling even better. She helped me decant the wine while Sherlock looked around as if memorizing the living room.

“He came,” Elliot murmured, surprised. 

I gave a shrug. “Seems the call of dessert is not to be trifled with.” It was a terrible pun, but she giggled.

After being called to table and grace, Mrs. H brought out the turkey and asked me to carve because, “You’re a doctor, so you know about surgery and such.” 

“Turkey anatomy wasn’t my strong point,” I felt compelled to tell her, but did a reasonably good job of it I think, serving her and Elliot before Sherlock and myself. We all tucked in, and it was lovely. Mrs. H talked about how she’d met Elliot’s mother and shared a few funny stories about her time in America, delicately skipping over the unpleasantness that had been Mr. H.

I noticed that Sherlock managed two large servings of turkey and seemed to be curbing any snide comments for the moment while I simply enjoyed myself sampling the various dishes. The Hopping John was rice, apparently, with beans and other veg mixed in. The biscuits weren’t biscuits of course—more like round scones but hot and soft, like rolls. Between Mrs. H and Elliot we had a regular feast and I found myself feeling a bit grateful for the odd holiday. 

Afterwards Mrs. H insisted we play Monopoly to give ourselves time to recover from dinner and work up some room for trifle. Turned out that despite claiming no interest in the game, Sherlock was ruthless about collecting properties in strategic positions. Between Pentonville Road and Piccadilly he drained funds from all of us, and might have ended up winning the game except he kept landing on Chance and Community Chest, muttering about what utter tripe the cards were. When he pulled the one about winning second place in a beauty contest Mrs. H and I had a good laugh.

Of course the trifle was well worth it, fluffy, sweet, and glorious. We all had our fill and Mrs. H insisted Sherlock take the leftovers, something he agreed to with unseemly haste I thought. Still, it had been a lovely meal and I lingered to help with the washing up, letting Mrs. H direct Elliot and me through all sorts of little housekeeping chores.

When we were done Elliot and I went for a walk, enjoying a chance to take in the air, which was pretty bracing. Elliot put her arm through mine and we snuggled close laughing and chatting about nothing in particular.


	8. Chapter 8

_Private_

_Just to get this down and not forget—not that I would, but it’s important. Elliot touched me last night._

_There was a lot of touching actually._

_After we got back to her flat and had the last of the wine whilst lounging on her couch, she deliberately took off her gloves and pressed her hands on my cheeks, looking in my eyes the whole time. Her palms were warm and I remembered thinking I was glad I’d shaved, but that was just to cover up being nervous because, well . . . I didn’t know what would happen._

_I’d seen her touch Sherlock, and various bodies, and her reactions to that weren’t always positive so I was concerned, but Elliot just stared at me, holding my gaze. I could see her eyes get watery, but she smiled, and squeezed my face right before kissing me, which was a tremendous relief. And a really nice kiss too._

_“So?” I had to ask her when we both broke off to breathe. “Nothing too scary, yes?”_

_“Plenty,” she murmured. “Sorry about your mom’s cancer and Harry walking out on Clara. And your pet, Welsh.”_

_That threw me for a loop. “I hadn’t thought about Welsh-The-Rabbit since I was eight and had to give him away after he kept breaking out of his hutch and erm, visiting the neighborhood does. My first experience with sex education, actually.”_

_Elliot smiled at me. “And I loved seeing that the first babies you ever delivered were twins.”_

_I grinned. “Rafe and Ian; both of them six pounds.” That had been a great day in my internship. Not that I wanted to specialize, but there really was something magnificent in the whole birth process._

_“And I saw . . . Bill, saving you,” she murmured quietly. “Saw how much sand got in the wound, how they weren’t sure they’d gotten all the fragments out, and the flies, and the three hour drive back over gravel . . . oh John . . .”_

_I swallowed at that, not sure what to say. It’s one thing to tell someone about it, but I could see that Elliot really did *know* what I’d been through. It was clear in her eyes, in her touch. I felt . . . naked and more than that, I felt grateful._

_And after that we made love. I mean, it was only natural and for the first time in ages I didn’t give a damn about my scar. Elliot kissed it in fact, along with quite a bit of the rest of me, and while I’m not quite up to Welsh-the-Rabbit standards, I’d like to think four times in a single night isn’t too bad for a middle-aged chap._

_Slept well. Slept really well._

\--oo00oo—

I guess it’s fair to say that my relationship status with Elliot has definitely progressed. Sherlock has refrained from commenting about it, but I tend to get texts with devious timing on my nights with her.

On the other hand, I’ve been quite the homebody on the nights when Elliot comes upstairs to subject herself to Sherlock’s research. The first time he wanted to examine her skull and demanded I arrange to x-ray Elliot’s head—a process I strongly vetoed. He then wanted blood and tissue samples and I was about to tell him to piss off when Elliot volunteered them.

“Hey, if Sherlock can figure out how this works, so much the better,” she murmured. “I’d _pay_ to get this condition reversed.”

That stunned him a bit. “And return to a life of boring mediocrity?”

“Yes.”

“Good God _why?”_  
Elliot just stared at him for a long moment, and when he didn’t look away she spoke in a patient voice—sort of the way I do sometimes when I need Sherlock to understand something he’s not getting. 

“Because I don’t _want_ it. Every time it happens I find myself on the edge of decisions I don’t want to make, Sherlock. Do I pretend I don’t know what I know about them, do I tell people, do I use the information or let it lie? In any given touch I have access to details about people that if exposed can do everything from embarrass them to have them thrown in jail or excommunicated. I don’t want to be the one to make the judgment calls anymore.”

For a long moment Sherlock said nothing, but his had this expression on his face that I’d seen once or twice before, a sort of heaviness to it that told me he really _did_ understand what Elliot meant. I busied myself with finishing up the blood draw, trying to be gentle and not interfere, but I did give Ell a pat to reassure her.

“Ignorance is bliss?” Sherlock managed, turning away from her. “On the whole I think it’s better to know than not to.”

“Yes, well _you’ve_ been like this for most of your life, right?” Elliot pointed out. “Not me. All this was thrust on me at one of the worst points in my life. No training, no preparation, just raw emotional data pouring in when I least expect it with no way to turn it off.”

“You’re being melodramatic,” Sherlock murmured, but Elliot suddenly shoved her way past me and glared up into his face, her entire body tense.

“Fuck you! Try getting hit with the emotional memories of a _pedophile_ and tell me that!”

Nasty silence after that; I didn’t know what to say, and Sherlock pursed his lips, looking a bit taken aback for once. He didn’t turn away though, and finally gave a long, slow exhalation. “You’re right,” he admitted quietly. “That would be . . . difficult to bear.”

Elliot waited a moment more and then nodded at him. “Thank you. Anyway, you can have the blood and skin, but I’m not giving you any urine.”

“I wouldn’t need it . . . I don’t think,” Sherlock replied. “I’m perfectly aware of your diet and prescriptions thanks to your medical records so for the moment these will do. Are you familiar with Zener cards?”

Elliot rolled her eyes. “You’re _kidding,_ right?”

“He never kids,” I told her, bringing over a cup of tea, making sure it didn’t have milk in it and that I didn’t touch her fingers passing it to her. Elliot took it and had a sip.

“Well if you’re familiar with them then we can speed through the basics, such as they are,” Sherlock murmured, taking the blood and skin scrapings away.  
I slipped an arm around Elliot and whispered to her while he was in the kitchen. “I’m sorry about that,” I murmured.

“Not your fault,” she smiled briefly. “It’s sort of fun getting in his face about this, actually.”

“It is, once in a while,” I admitted. I won’t lie; it did feel good to remind Sherlock now and again about the moral side of humanity, and seeing someone else get through to him was a bit fun too. 

Sherlock returned with a deck of cards and gave me a frown that told me to let go of Elliot without directly saying so. I slipped over to one of the living room chairs and buried my nose in a medical journal, keeping an ear out on the proceedings and trying not to get in the way.

Zener cards are those strange ones with symbols on them, and from what I understand people with ESP are supposed to be able to know what they are without looking at them. Elliot was spectacularly bad at them, and I was having a hard time not chuckling as they worked through the deck, with Sherlock getting more and more frustrated.

“Circle?”

“No.”

“Wiggly lines?”

“No!”

“Cross?”

“No! This is rapidly becoming pointless.”

“I could have told you that before we _started,_ Sherlock. I’m not a psychic—at least not in any through-the-air-transmission sense. I touch skin and I form pictures in my head, end of story,” Elliot huffed. “This is all a waste of time.”

“True,” Sherlock folded the deck and after a few seconds began to expertly shuffle them, those long fingers of his making the cards snap and shift quickly. “We’d be better off using these for coasters.”

“When exactly have _you_ ever used a coaster?” I objected, but Elliot was grinning when Sherlock held the fanned deck out to her and she pulled one. After a second she tucked it back and Sherlock went through another series of flourishes and pulled out a card with a square on it.

“Nice. Do you do parties too?” Elliot snorted.

“God forbid,” I muttered. “Knowing Sherlock he’d saw someone in half for real.”

“Somatosensory input,” He mused, deliberately ignoring my jibe. “Touch alone then. Does it matter how long? Or where on the body? Can you do it with a single finger, or does it require more surface contact? Do you get a stronger impression with two hands over one? What if you’re drugged or drunk or otherwise impaired?”

“Hmmmm,” Elliot drew in a breath and leaned forward. “Well, it’s a bit like a static shock—like when you drag your feet on the carpet and then touch a doorknob. A lot of quick impressions in a flash, and from what I can see a lot of them have to do with the person’s emotional state. If I hang on, a few of them linger, but most of the time they fade within a few minutes.”

“So you could, in theory, touch people after the initial contact with no difficulty?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“I can . . . but I have to trust them. And they have to trust me,” came her slow reply. “Look, we all have things we don’t want other people to know, and sometimes those are the sorts of things that linger.”

“So if you’re going to pursue this relationship with John,” Sherlock intoned, “You’re going to have to accept a lot of war-related imagery.”

“Sherlock!” I warned him, but my chest was tight; he’d hit the nail on the head and no mistake there. 

Elliot gave a little nod. “Yes.”

He managed a grim smile at that, and deliberately flicked the Zener deck at me, making a mess as they flew all around.

“Hey!” I protested, but Elliot was laughing now, and Sherlock shifted back on the sofa, looking vaguely amused himself.

“There you go John; a full set of coasters for us. I’m going to glean what information I can from the blood and tissue samples now and think about how best to proceed from there. Oh, and on your way out you might give the thermo a tweak; it’s getting a little chilly.”

I muttered things under my breath, but Elliot helped me pick up the cards, and checked her watch.

“We have enough time to get a pizza and watch some TV if you like.”

Before I could tell her how lovely that sounded, Sherlock’s phone chirped, he read the text and shot off of the sofa in a tangle of knees and elbows. “Lestrade; murder. Coming, John?”

“What, now?” I whinged, but Elliot gave me a nudge.

“Go. Pizza will keep,” she assured me, so I ended up following after Sherlock and grumbling when the chill hit us out the front door.

“Snow soon,” he murmured, tucking the ends of his scarf into his coat. “Maybe Mrs. Hudson has the right idea.”

“Mmmm,” I muttered, thinking briefly of Florida and all it brought to mind. Warmth. Beaches. Bikinis. Elliot in a bikini in particular.

“No time for your libido, John, we’ve a corpse to inspect,” Sherlock reminded me, and hailed a cab with those long arms of his while I tried to keep my hands warm and wished I was curled on a sofa watching trash telly instead of freezing body parts I could be putting to good use with Elliot.


End file.
